


Misguided

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Somebodies accidentally a creep, Unintentionally mean, and Quentin is easily freaked out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-24 19:04:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: Quentin starts getting texts from a stranger and is understandably freaked out.





	Misguided

The first time it happens, Quentin’s walking across the quad, head in the clouds, desperately trying to figure out a plan to defeat the beast. But his phone dings in his pocket, making him remember he actually has a phone, as he passes through the tech areas. He stops, pulls it out of his pocket, surprised the battery isn’t dead, and reads the text. 

_**Unknown 2:47pm** _

> _You look cute today._

He stares down at the phone for a long moment before shaking his head and shoving it back in his pocket. It has to be the wrong number.

But then, three hours later, as he passes back through the quad, a stack of books in his hands, his phone buzzes in his pocket again. He sighs, stopping and shuffling around until the books are balanced on one arm in the crook of his elbow and forearm, and pulls the phone out of his pocket. 

_**Unknown 6:04pm** _

> You are the smartest, and kindest person I know. 

He debates texting the person back and telling them they have the wrong number, but he’s got more important things to deal with than somebody texting him nice things on accident. Like, figuring out a way to defeat the beast, for example. So, he shoves the phone back in his pocket and makes his way back to the physical kids cottage. 

“Quentin!” Eliot calls as Quentin pushes open the front door. 

He looks up from his book, smiles, “Hey. I think I have an idea about the beast,” He says as he makes his way into the living room. 

Eliot rolls his eyes, but pats the seat next to him on the couch. “Let’s see it, then.” 

*

Quentin forgets about the messages until three days later, when he’s walking across the quad again and his phone buzzes four times. He frowns, pulling out his phone - still amazed the damn thing isn’t dead - and reads them.

_**Unknown Tuesday, 2:15am** _

> Please don’t let all of this get you down. You’re too good to let this destroy you.

_**Unknown Wednesday 7:38pm** _

> Your hair is all disheveled, and it works. Please never get a haircut.

_**Unknown, Thursday 10:47pm** _

> Penny’s an idiot. 

And there goes the idea that it was the wrong number. Unless, by some ridiculous happenstance his mystery texter also knows an idiot named Penny. 

So, he sighs, shoves his messenger bag aside, and types up a reply: 

> _Who is this?_

He knows it’s not the most eloquent response, but there’s not much else he can say. Thanks, mysterious stranger, for your ongoing support? I look forward to your vote in the upcoming polls. Isn’t exactly a dead ringer for what he wants to say. 

Also, having a stranger texting him little encouragements is kind of freaking him out, so no thank you for them until he knows why they’re doing it.

*

He’s mad. 

His mystery texter never responded to his question, but he did get an array of new little encouraging texts over the course of the next week: 

_**Unknown, Friday 5:13am** _

> I’m always here to talk, Q.

_**Unknown, Friday 9:10am,** _

> I can curse Penny if you need me to. Would gladly do it, he’s being a dick. And that’s my job.

_**Unknown, Saturday 12:54pm** _

> Why the fuck did you wake up early? Go back to sleep and get some rest. The beast can wait until you’ve had a decent amount of shut eye.

_**Unknown, Saturday 12:56pm** _

> Besides, you don’t want to be dead on your feet when it is time to fight him.

_**Unknown, Monday, 12:45pm,** _

> I know you’re having a bad day, but your smile earlier was kind the highlight of mine. So, I hope something cheers you up, too. 

_**Unknown, Tuesday 11:15am** _

> First of all, I’m mad at you. Second of all, ignore them. You deserve to be happy.

_**Unknown, Thursday 4:15am** _

> Q, I heard you crying. Talk to me. It’s okay. I’m here for you.

 

And, Quentin likes to think he’s a pretty level headed guy, despite his disadvantages. He likes to think he can look at something creepy and not freak out. But he’s freaked out, and angry and on the verge of breaking down when he storms through the cottage’s front door and heads up the stairs. 

He barely makes it a few steps before Eliot appears at the top, stares down at him with a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks, appraising as he takes a step down. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Quentin just shakes his head and shoves past him, because of all the people that are going to understand his frustration - and mild fear - Eliot is not one of them. He’s great, but he’s probably never been afraid of anything in his life. 

Yes, Quentin knows damn well he’s being unfair but he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. He just wants his mystery texter to leave him alone.

*

_**Unknown, Friday 6:17pm** _

> What the fuck is going on with you?

_**Unknown Friday, 8:23pm** _

> Quentin, talk to me.

_**Unknown, friday 10:33pm** _

> Q. Come on. 

He throws his phone across the room, because apparently now the texts come through whenever, curls up in his bed and goes back to sleep.

*

He wakes up to the bzz, bzz, bzzing of his phone vibrating on his floor. Groaning, he pulls his blanket over his head and tries to fall back asleep. 

*

He’s been curled up in his bed for the majority of the past two days when his door blasts open, and Eliot and Margo appear in the doorway, glaring down at him. 

“Enough,” Margo says, making her way into the room, and yanking the blanket off the bed. “Get your sad, pathetic ass out of bed. Go take a shower, and then meet us downstairs. Eliot cooked.” She points a finger at him, when he doesnt move and just stares up at her. “Quentin Coldwater, if you don’t get the fuck up, I will curse you to an indefinite existence of only having left shoes. Even if you buy a right and a left, the right shoe will turn left, and you will never be comfortable again. And you’re clumsy enough as it is without having to worry about having two left feet, so get. The fuck. Up.” 

He’s eyes flit over her to Eliot, who’s standing in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed, and a cigarette between his lips. 

“Now, Quentin!”

“Okay,” He mutters, slipping his legs over the side of the bed, “I’m going.” 

“Good boy. We’ll see you downstairs in ten.” She grins and turns on her heel, disappearing down the hallway without another word.

Quentin sighs, pulling himself up and off the bed and making his way out of the room to the bathroom. 

Eliot stops him with a gentle hand on his shoulder. “If you need to talk,” He says, “You know you can talk to me, right?” 

And it’s so much like what his fucking mystery texter’s been saying that Quentin rips his shoulder out of Eliot’s hand and storms off into the bathroom. It’s not fair to Eliot, but jesus christ, he can’t hear people saying he can talk to them right now.

* 

_**Unknown, Saturday 3:11pm** _

> Please don’t be sad. I don’t know what to do, anymore. Q. Just tell me what you need.

_**Quentin, Saturday 4:15pm** _

> JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.

*

Part of him wonders if it’s Penny just fucking with him, but when he finally has the courage to bring it up to everyone a week later, Penny’s clueless. 

“You think I care how you feel?” He asks, laughing. “Fat chance.” 

And either Penny’s a ridiculously good liar, or Quentin’s back to square one. He looks at the rest of the group, everyone looks concerned - except for Penny, obviously, and Eliot, who’s in some drug induced stuper, staring off into space.

* 

He’s in class when the phone starts ringing, and without thinking, he sends it to voicemail. 

And he forgets about it until he’s crossing the quad, and the phone dings to remind him he’s got one unheard voicemail. He’s tempted to delete it without listening to it, because it can’t be anyone other than his secret whatever this person is, but he pulls his phone out of his pocket, stares at the notification for a few moments, then sighs. 

He moves towards the tunnel with the pay phones and dials his voicemail. 

At first, there’s just a soft breathing, and then,

“Q, I am so sorry.” 

Holy shit. He knows this voice.

“I - I was just trying to make you feel better. I didn’t think you would react negatively, and that’s one me, because I know you, and I should have known you wouldn’t be too happy about some stranger texting you. I just don’t know how to do this stuff face to face. It’s easier when there’s a screen. And I’m sorry I took my own comfort over yours. That was incredibly seflish. I’m sorry.” The voice pauses, breath stuttering out, and Quentin’s almost certain the sound is a cigarette being exhaled, “The only explanation I can give, because I do owe you an explanation, is that I love you.” He laughs, soft and not at all humorus, “Shocking, I know. I’m not exactly a class act in the whole wooing and caring about someone. This was the only way I could think to do it.

“And I’m sorry for not telling you the other night when you asked us. I was kind of freaking out because I was the reason you were so freaked out. Guess we kind of fit in that aspect. But,” He pauses again, “If you don’t want to see or speak to me again, I can make that happen. 

“I’m sorry. Again.” 

“ _To delete this message, please press 1._ ” 

He hangs up, shoves his phone in his messenger bag, and races across campus.

*

Eliots sitting on the couch, drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Quentin moves through the livingroom, sits on the edge of the coffee table and stares at him. Eliot’s eyes pass over him, as he lets his head fall back to stare up at the ceiling, and a along exhale of smoke comes billowing out of his mouth. “You got my voicemail, I assume,” He murmurs, voice hoarse.

Quentin nods. “You’re an asshole.” 

Eliot nods, lower lip sticking for a moment before he lifts his head up and looks at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.” 

“Why didn’t you just tell me it was you?” 

He shrugs. “Same reason I didn’t tell you how I feel, I guess.” He brings the cigarette back up to his lips, takes a long drawl, “Too chickenshit.” 

Quentin gives a small, half smile at that. “I -,” he pauses, swallowing as Eliot exhales the smoke. “I appreciate the effort. I was freaked, but you weren’t intentionally being a jack ass so I can’t really be mad at you.” 

“Q,” Eliot starts.

“Besides,” He says, standing up, “I think you promised to curse Penny, and I would really like to take you up on that offer.” He smiles down at him, holding a hand out to help him up. 

Eliot stares at his hand for a few long moments, before setting his drink on the couch and taking it, allowing himself to be pulled up, and off the couch. “I can do that,” He murmurs, looking at Quentin through his eyelashes. 

“Good,” Quentin nods, before turning and heading out of the room. He stops on the first step of the stairs, looks back at Eliot - who’s staring after him, confused - and smiles softly. “I should also mention that I love you too, and was too chickenshit to admit it as well.” His nose wrinkles, “In the interest of not leaving anything out.” 

 


End file.
